Keeping Fingers Crossed

My fingers are sore beyond words. Tiny crevices have developed, split open by the biting cold of winter and the excessive hand washing meant to ward off the flu bug making the rounds of the office.

Well-meaning family and friends have offered every possible solution to my finger malady but to no avail. I have dipped my digits in various creams and potions each night, only to have the cracks reappear by mid-morning.

I glue them back together with this stuff called Skin Shield. It works well if I keep applying it. Sometimes I just give in and put Band-Aids on the really sore spots.

It’s not a good look for someone who makes her living at a computer keyboard. We won’t even bring up the typos caused by my wrapped fingers.

Old Man Winter has a mean streak. If my fingers weren’t so sore, I would shake my fists at him.

More than one person has mentioned aches and woes brought on by this unusually long and trying winter. One fellow talks about his knees being cold all the time and hurting like a toothache. Another says she’s tired all the time and hates the long, dark days. She has taken the advice of specialists and has invested in a type of bright lamp to sit under. This mimics the sunlight that has failed to show itself for days on end.

There’s no excitement left in missing school because of a snow day. Children become bored, lost in the lack of routine after so many days at home. Grocery bills, along with the gas budget, have gotten out of control. I fear there will soon be a bounty on Snowbird’s feathered head.

Road crews are weary, the unsung heroes who make sure we can get to work or the grocery store. Their job will only get tougher when spring arrives and the potholes will demand even more of their attention.

My warm boots have sprung a leak, worn out and begging for a day’s rest from the snow and ice. Getting ready to go outside in single-digit weather is akin to a scene out of “The Christmas Story” when Ralphie’s brother is bundled up with so many layers he can’t bend his arms.

Snow is not so pretty anymore even if those dang-blasted snowflakes are miraculously unique. And an ice-covered windshield that fails to yield to the ice scraper is not funny. Stores are competing to keep with the demand for salt even though the ice refuses to melt in single-digit temperatures. I dare say travel agents are doing a brisk business as Northerners seek out any place warm on the continent.

As I pine away for a breath of spring, a warm breeze and a peek at a crocus, a winter storm is looming tomorrow. Don’t be fooled by a short reprieve today. March is coming in like a lion – a mean, hungry lion. All we can do is batten down the hatches and wait with show shovel at the ready. I’m keeping my bandaged fingers crossed that this will be the last of it.

Heather Ziegler can be reached at hziegler@theintelligencer.net.